Welcome Home

Again, I find myself waiting.  Waiting to start the newest chapter in my life as I move into a new house- a place I truly hope might feel like the home I have been so in need of for nearly three and a half years now.  A place where I can feel set up, established, and grounded; at peace in the small niceties that I can arrange for myself.  A spare room with a treadmill and yoga mat so I can work out without weather, time or dog constrictions.  A new desk in a, cozy, corner landing overlooking the front yard, where I can spread out and write as I please.  A yard for my dogs to run around freely while I put my feet up on the patio table and leaf through a book, cup of coffee in hand.  A record player, next to a roaring fireplace, ready to be played at a moment’s notice, with my favorite Ella Fitzgerald album already on deck.  A TV in my kitchen so I can listen to the news as I do the dishes or fix my lunches for the week.

All of this seems so simple, maybe even material.  Many would ask why I can’t do these things in my current living space. And while physical space certainly lends its limitations here, I will be the first to admit, that’s not really the issue.  Something about my current place has always felt stale and uneasy.  Perhaps it is the hauntings of my divorce. Perhaps it is the hauntings of another kind.  Or perhaps more likely, it has been my own mental limitations- my own imaginations and feelings that I cannot spread out and feel settled here.  Why?  I’m not sure.  But I have always felt tense and restless here in a way that I cannot logically describe.

What I can describe is the feeling that for the last three years (possibly more) my heart and soul have felt detached from me.  They had run off and I have been searching high and low to hunt them down; a child with a butterfly net desperately trying to capture this elusive thing of beauty.  It has led me on quite the goose chase as I have looked to a variety of places- deepening friendships, lovers arms, alcohol, books, family gatherings, vacation destinations, my career…none of which have ever allowed me to feel fully at home in my own soul again.

Surely by now, what I have realized is what perhaps was the most obvious all along- home is not about other people and home is not just a physical location, but rather, a state of mind and for some reason this state of mind simply could not be reached in my current apartment.  So, I suppose, it is only natural to feel like a rugged, worn out traveler who been on the road, so to speak for the last three years, and I am finally ready to hang up my coat.  Perhaps my utter disdain for my currently living space is because I never mentally came home to it.  Or rather, my heart never came home to me.  But I’m ready now.  I’m ready to love more fully and happily and honestly than I ever have before.  I’m ready for it all.

Welcome home, Jo.  We’ve missed you.


One thought on “Welcome Home

  1. Pingback: The Best, Worst Time Of My Life | Separate Ways

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